Hot Buttered Rum by Mary Chapin Carpenter
When chimney smoke hangs still and low
across the stubbled fields of snow
And angry skies reach down and seize
the sorry blackened bones of trees
In the dead of winter when the silent snowbirds come
You're my sweet maple sugar, honey, hot buttered rum
When dreary Christmas decorations
line the streets and filling stations
And dime store Santas can't disguise
their empty hands and empty eyes
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